Shrouded
What is the measure of sorrow’s depth? A mile, a fathom? Soullessness?
Is it a silent suffering or screaming agony? Or less
Than nothing? Is true sorrow deep as midnight? Is it fiery? Cold?
Is’t a return to youthful helplessness, or falling instant-old?
Who knows the grief in its extreme that tells how deep sorrow can grow?
Only the ghosts of doubt can guess at this: I hope I never know.
On the Hour
I hear a distant clamoring, that clear and golden hammering,
the calling so enamoring me of this hour of day,
That chorus of the chiming bells change-ringing, as their music swells
until no other parallels the news they swing to say,
‘Til every other sound should cease as swiftly as the bells increase,
work stop, hopes rise, hearts fill with peace; the ringing calls that soon
The echo of its chimes will fall where it sang out from wall to wall
in waves of life over us all to tell us it is noon–
No wonder, in this ringing sphere of tonal loveliness I hear,
I sense a sweetness drawing near and beckoning to me
To join the clangor of the song, to strike at every chime and gong
and bell, that each must sing along and set the midday free–
Ring every bronze and silver note, ring brass and gold, and keep afloat
all of earth’s joy–the antidote to death is in this tune–
Ring happiness, ring love and peace; ring out the hour of sweet release;
ring the refrain of this caprice until another noon!
Countdown to Dreaming
What sprightly sprites, by noon and night, what fairies of the air
Dance in my dreams? To me, it seems there’s always someone there
To twist and twirl, to whiz and whirl, to pirouette, jeté,
To bow and bend and to transcend mortality this way.
No one can see this dance but me, and only when I slumber,
When forty winks or nap, methinks, begins to unencumber
The dancing denizens of sleep, my own replacements for mere sheep,
And I must count them, lest my deep repose should lose their number.
You may not be the least bit surprised to hear that I was recently duped by a fast food commercial (yes, I do eat Junk Foods of many kinds) into thinking that a special treat of theirs was going to be worth trying. Not only was it worlds from what was portrayed (as the old Norwegian-joke goes: ‘What was wrong with it??? The food was terrible! And the portions were so small!’), it was accompanied by a zippy little packet from the counter container marked Honey, which on closer inspection turned out to be not honey but ‘Honey Sauce’–a packet I was too fearful to open after reading the long ingredient list wherein honey fell fourth to three of the other four sweeteners, barely before water and a list of preservatives impossible to spell.
I was tempted to go directly home and swill real, pure, local, raw Texas honey straight from the bottle, but I resisted. Needless to say, the packet of Mystery ‘sauce’ (I still find it kind of amazing that it’s even legal to call it that, let alone Honey Sauce) went instantly to the circular file, followed in short shrift by the remains of the appalling main dish, and I went off to cleanse my palate at home. You’d think I’d be smarter by now. Sigh.
Fasting Food
Silly me! I thought Fast Food
meant eating something raw and crude,
Something exotic and delicious,
not appallingly pernicious,
But cooked and primped and sauced to serve
as amuse-bouche, starter, hors-d’oeuvre,
Not some spectacular, emetic
parody of dietetic
And comestible delights—
it seems to me, Fast Food, by rights,
Should be what shows up close to hand
in finished form and on demand,
Unsullied by the attitude
of what we often call Fast Food.
The World in a Nutshell
All of the world’s in perpetual motion,
A loop of swift action, a constant commotion
That moves us in nervous centrifugal rings
To do and to act on a million odd things,
And so caffeinated we cannot hold still,
Or the moment of fixity surely might kill
Our fast-racing heartbeat, as used as it is
To zipping and zapping around in a whiz—
And all of us hope we will one day find quiet
And respite from all of our everyday riot,
But I am suspicious that it won’t occur
Until the last second of living, no Sir!
Snaking Upward
I’m not a caterpillar, no,
I’m just a humble worm;
I have my aspirations, though
Ambitions make me squirm;
I like to keep a secret how
I wish for fame and wealth;
I know to climb’s not bad, I just
Prefer it done by stealth.
Rattlesnake Wannabe
Here Lies a Haunted Man
First thing in the morning a perfect blue sky,
with a few sheepish clouds and a breeze,
gives no indication of what, when or why
we believe we must hide in the trees,
to disguise from what enemy, storm, or what foe,
or to vanish from sight for which reason;
we know none of that, but we certainly know
we have entered a paranoid season.
Dreamscape
Out of the leaves of a banana tree
A mysterious Eye is staring at me;
I have some magnetic pull, it seems,
For the kind of stuff that makes up dreams.
Ten past midnight, and all is well
Except that I’m under the nightly spell
That thrusts me onto those strange savannahs
Where pursuers send me stark bananas.
I Realize You were Only Doing
What Comes Naturally,
But I have to Scold You, My Pet
I know you only meant to make
A dandy first impression
By killing this whole crowd, but Jake,
Behold my grave expression–
For it is impolite, I think,
And maybe even naughty,
Recruiting everyone in sight
To play the role of Body–
Your nature calls you to the task,
I knew from your first GRRR!—
But some restraint gets less complaint
Than utter massacre.
I thank you that you rout the moles
And rodents by your labors,
Dear Jakey Boy, but next time leave
Your teeth out of the neighbors.
On the upside, the house next door is available now . . .
Lullaby for Spring
Sleep, my sweet, my lovely one,
From dusk until the rising sun
Paints morning roses blushed with dew;
Let comfort bless the night, and you,
Awaking, bless with joy the ray
That, opalescent, breaks this day.
Bells Rung a Little Prematurely
Bats of old Belvedere flew out and in
Of the belfry Hieronymus tended
‘Til they drove him quite crazy, so is it a sin
That he swung ere the service was ended?
Art-Colored Glasses 